A Good Doctor
by Supremis
Summary: See One, Do One, Teach One. Or, Bertram Chickering Jr., from his first day at the Knick to his last ― and then some.
1. circus

See One, Do One, Teach One. Or, Bertram Chickering Jr., from his first day at the Knick to his last ― and then some.

* * *

 **circus**  
 **(day 1)**

See, back in his day, Father was a fistfighter.

Collegiate pugilism mostly. Bertie doesn't know many of the details ― which is to be expected, honestly, but the evidence is still there. It's in the older man's body language. When threatened, he starts to load up on his right hand; he shuffles his feet and sets his stance when moving against another individual. He's ready to fight even before the thinks about it, regardless whenever he would even consider it.

Dr. Bertram Chickering Sr., as he is known, had grown up an angry child, growing up not quite poor but poor enough, a third-generation American and Southern, half-educated in the best South Carolina tradition until he, his father― Bertie's own Grandfather Thomas ―and three brothers all moved to New York for reasons both economical and unknown. Bertie is not sure what happened to his grandmother and Father's two other sisters. He knows better, even now, to ask. Scrapping with three older brothers is a given, though, Bertie imagines. He's never had that problem personally, he himself has only ever had a younger sister, but he can see it happening ― saw it with other children his own age, with their own brothers, and he could see it with Father. He was built for it. Not massive, but not exactly small, either.

Getting thumped by your brothers (wasn't one of them a lawyer, now?) and then, later, getting thumped by your classmates, was something that just _happened_. A proper man knows how to swing a punch, apparently. Father knew how to beat another man if it came to it. So did Dr. Everett Gallinger. And, so did around, at least, ninety-three percent of all the adult men Bertie knew.

Not that Bertie really knows from personal experience.

Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr. has never hit another human being, has never been hit by another human being, and, as far as he is concerned, he's not going to start on the trend anytime soon.

Partly because it's just flat out not in his nature, and partly because... Well, take one good look at Bertie Chickering and one can guess why it isn't he doesn't make a habit of looking for fights.

He might have inherited Father's brain (and heck, Mother's too, even if the other half of his genetic inheritance is never mentioned otherwise) but he's not exactly excelling in the vertical department. Bertie came to terms with that years ago. Dispaired, for a good period of time, but he has come to terms with the fact that, yes, he's a lot smaller compared to the rest of his peers. A lot more scrawny compared to the rest of his peers.

But he _might_ just be smarter.

Still, that doesn't cut much ice when, as a doctor, you can expect that the rest of your medical school graduates have slugged it out for about just as long as it has taken them to get their degrees, and some, probably even longer. Bertie himself finds it quite ironic. Here they are, supposedly to _do no harm_ and, ideally, help make people better, but oh, beating another man senseless with your fists in your spare time? Well that's just _fine_.

Bertie Chickering is not a man easily threatened. Flustered, oh sure. Embarrassed, probably more than he should be, but not exactly threatened. He has Father to thank for that, and a group of friends all older and larger than he.

So when he is introduced to Dr. John Thackery of the Knickerbocker Hospital and he's borderline on _terrified_ , Bertie knows something is wrong.

Outwardly, John Thackery isn't much. Tall, sure, but he's also rumpled and underweight. Twitchy, too. But fueled with boundless energy and a desire to _progress further_ and a sense of fervor that Bertie just flat out isn't used to. He's used to quiet people. Quiet intellectuals and professionals who murmur clinically, and back at home, equally quiet parents. So when on his fist day he's faced with Dr. Thackery in all his manic glory, Bertie is a bit out of his depth.

Dr. Christiansen is a little more sedate, but only in the physical sense. The man himself has the personality of a predator. "You came third in your year?" He asks, and Bertie feels, in his stomach, that giving the man the truthful answer is the incorrect choice to make. That speaking at all is the wrong choice to make.

Thackery waves his hands at the gray-haired, squinting one and makes a displeased noise at the back of his throat. "Those tests don't matter."

"Then what does?" The comment is sarcastic. Christiansen looks at Thackery, pointedly, with his eyebrows raised and a wry smile on his face. It leaves Bertie with the impression that he's sort of... intruding.

"Surgical aptitude, Jules. Desire. _Drive_. It's one thing for us to fight on the path of progress, but it's time to extend that knowledge to others. Those who in, what? Ten, twenty years time, will be on the forefront of medical evolution." Thackery spins around on his heels and clasps his hands.

Christiansen glances at Bertie. "And you're going to start with Chickering," he deadpans. "What about Gallinger?"

"What about him?" Thackery sighs, and slides his hands across his chest, as if looking for something, patting himself down once, twice, until he realises that he isn't wearing a jacket at all and whatever he is looking for simply isn't there. "Plus anyway, come what may, it's going to really piss this young man's father off when he realises just _who_ his sainted offspring is learning from."

Bertie, wisely, doesn't say anything in regards to that little sentiment.

(It's one he'll grow used to, regardless.)

"I'll take him to the ward and give our dear novice a thorough induction to Circus life," Thackery beams as he hurries passed the older doctor. Bertie notably tenses with his approach, but it isn't until they are out of the theater and into the hallway that Thackery actually puts a hand on him ― a solid, clasp against the shoulder that was undoubtedly friendly, but which very nearly sends the much smaller doctor colliding into the wall with the force of his strike.

"I'm telling you, Dr. Chickering ― I'm going to pass on all my nasty habits, just you see."

Well isn't that the truth.


	2. appendectomy

**appendectomy**  
 **(day 15)**

"Don't upset your father, not now." Mother warns wryly as she sets the table for breakfast. She doesn't look up at Bertie, so realistically this warning could well be for Carla (or maybe even both of them, what with them sharing the same said father, and said tendencies to aggravate the former) but he knows better. Knows better, because, after twenty-four years of being caught slipping out in his Sunday best or throwing the odd baseball around the house, Bertie knows that anything and everything spoken in that certain tone of voice ― the infernal flattened sort ― is meant especially for him and him alone.

And true enough, Dr. Bertie Chickering tenses as if he was thirteen and caught red handed again before he can actually understand why it is exactly he is being warned. He pauses mid-step to stand awkwardly in the doorway. Carla coughs impatiently from behind his shoulder with his sudden cease in movement.

"Why?" He asks, ruffled, still half-asleep, with his collar sloppily done up and feeling inclined to make a complete one-eighty and go straight back to bed. He steps aside to let Carla pass. "What's wrong?"

Mother makes an amused, knowing noise at the back of her throat and presses a spoon down onto the table cloth. It could either mean a sarcastic metaphorical "what isn't wrong?" or the "you should know" wrong, and Bertie cares little for either prospect, honestly. Neither of them mean anything good.

At least, not for him anyway.

Bertie knows that Father is... incredibly exasperated, to put it mildly, by him having gone to the Knick rather than at his practice in Columbia. He got an earful about it yesterday, and the day, and all through the week before ― and now, on Thursday morning of his second week, Father had settled into making the occasional snide comment and straight up dismissing the work as either crazy, pointless, or both, rather than bothering to make much of an argument. Bertie believes it's more due to Father's lack of drive for an debate rather than growing acceptance; give him a few days to recuperate and he'll be back on Bertie's case, there is no doubt.

Still, comments aside, Father was not angry this time. That was the important thing. He wasn't mad.

He's merely peeved, if immensely so, and that merited caution, but not necessarily much concern. It was a matter of taking care about what he says and when, to who, and how he approaches any given situation with Father ― keep to the basics, and never outright disagree. The simple matter of the fact was that Father was more annoyed that Bertie, as in, Dr. Bertram Chickering Sr's beloved only son, Columbia University graduate and all-around Ivy League golden boy with a batting average of .300, is actually enjoying his first few days at the Knick, a poor man's hospital ― and voicing his intention to stay ― rather than the issue of actually having a position there at all, full stop. If it was any other hospital, or even any other doctor teaching him, chances are Father would be relatively unconcerned, if still disappointed. He might have even stomached the Knick completely.

But no. It _was_ the Knick as it was, and it _was_ Dr. Thackery teaching him, so Bertie takes what little information he has on Father's current mood and runs with it.

Almost literally.

Mother only has to look at his face once to see those exact intentions and she wags the fork in her hand at him from across the breakfast table. "You'll eat your breakfast."

Caught out or no, Bertie still manages to smirk. "Speaking of."

"Sit down." Mother shakes her head, but she's amused. Anne Chickering was at the age, and of the overall nature, that she drew amusement out of teasing her husband. Probably because it was either her teasing, or her managing his temper and often harsh severity. Bertie has long since come to the conclusion that he does not envy her.

But he does admire Mother, of course. Her relationship with Bertie didn't admit of confidences, or of all the trappings of the sentimental, platonic courtship between a mother and her grown boy; according to Father, Bertie had outgrown that by the time he could speak using compound sentences with two independent clauses joined by a coordinating conjunction, but there was still the quiet appreciation. Mother was probably the only person Bertie knew who he did not have to prove himself to. Mother asked only a minor redemption — something that would stuff back the acid remarks that everyone had made about where Bertie's career of soft-heartedness and idealism would end. She wished one thing itself, simple and linear: Let Bertie succeed, fairly.

Mother was not the only one. Dr. Everett Gallinger, it turned out, had similar wants. However his desire to see Bertie grow as a reliable surgeon was more out of the desire for Bertie to like him. If somewhat forcibly.

He was one of those doctors that Bertie's own father often referred to as 'new stock', as in, a first generation doctor where the practice of medicine did not run in the family. Bertie is, actually, the fourth in his line. Everett came from Philadelphia, originally, having studied at Cooper, a Yard Master's son — who actually wasn't a Yard Master anymore and actually owned a good portion of the trains that ran through the Western States and still somehow claimed to hold a laborer's mindset. Everett had migrated east to seek other employment opportunities. He had been working in New York for a good number of years, it turned out, but by the time Bertie was employed, had been gone on a trip to Vancouver before returning with his new wife, hence the reason why Bertie had actually spent the first week or so without hearing much about the absent Dr. Gallinger aside from the vacant comment or running commentary from Thackery. He himself met the man for the first time yesterday morning.

It went well, Bertie likes to think. In the sense that while Gallinger was completely and utterly dismissive of Dr. Chickering Jr. to the extent of treating him like a novice — both medically and politically, ethically and philosophically, he wasn't exactly hostile, either. Not like Christiansen had feared.

Whatever the heck that was supposed to mean.

But, it merited a close working relationship and stuffiness aside, Bertie did like Everett. It was too early to really tell; so far, Everett was charming, and polite. They weren't friends, but on some level, they were accepting of one another. Which was a strike of good luck on Bertie's part, considering how, ordinarily, there might have been some level of resentment in sharing a mentor. There had been a lot of it back in Columbia. Competitiveness and ambitious dealings were common, and resentment often soon followed.

And Dr. Thackery had made it quite clear: Bertie needed a lot more attention than Everett did. At first, Bertie had been alarmed, but Everett seemed to have taken it with enthusiasm; he's an ambitious man, something of which Bertie is very — and most certainly, quietly — thankful for.

He liked progress just about as any other man on the planet, but that doesn't mean he's willing to throw anyone to the wolves to get there.

Dr. Thackery, it turns out, is more than willing.

"Thack wants us to start working on an alternative to McBurney's muscle splitting operation." Everett informs Bertie that morning, and it judging by the look on his face, he seems to have already decided on Bertie's behalf that they will both be undertaking this task.

Bertie is supposed to be on the ward right now, but he's still unsure as of to how authority here really works, and therefore hesitates, perhaps too obviously. Dr. Christiansen is the man in charge, and he's the man who writes out Bertie's normal workday routine, but Bertie also knows now that it's Dr. Thackery to whom he, at least while out of the operating theater, follows lead. If Thackery told Everett to do this, with Bertie, then... Well Bertie's always made a habit out of doing what he's told. But it's also choosing to break routine on purpose, and that is something Bertie just straight up does not appreciate.

Everett appears to be waiting, and is surprised — judging by the subtle opening of the mouth and furrow between the eyebrows — that Bertie hasn't immediately taken his word for it.

"An appendectomy?" Bertie asks, and nods. What he really wants to ask is if this is okay, that should they be doing this, but he can't get the words out, and just splutters something else out instead. "What about Semm's theory?"

"It's rather outdated, don't you think?"

"I guess," Bertie admits, and that is how his day starts, in the operating room working not on a patient, but on a pig carcass (which, what with all the hacking and disagreements and _blood_ , is a darn relief) ruining the pages of at least six different books with sticky bloody fingerprints and enough meat to keep a butcher in business for a good long time. Or in the Knick's kitchen.

Either way, it ends up with Bertie's left hand getting stuck to a page on _History of Appendicitis Vermiformis and it's diseases and treatment_. Literally, stuck, as he leans against the table to grab a reference text only to find that the hand he is leaning against is suddenly fixed against paper.

"Is this really the best way to conduct research?" Bertie asks as he pulls his hand free from the now spoiled page and marvels at the handprint left behind.

Everett actually laughs. "If you find a way, let me know."

"But it's... wasteful." Bertie counters the lack of argument as Everett takes the book out of his hands.

"Agreed," he states with a shrug. "But Dr. Christiansen has some agreement with the Head of the Board of Directors; he gets everything he wants, and that includes replacement material."

Then he smiles, despite the disappoint lack of success so far, as if this is all just one big amusement.

"And as for these poor subjects," he slaps one — of the six — pigs on the side affectionately. "They won't go to waste. So why force the matter?"

Why indeed? Bertie wipes his hands against the front of his gown and gets straight back to it.

When Mother asks, in bewilderment, why Bertie has got a bloody fingerprint on his collar — a quarter of an inch below he had ran his hand across his neck in frustration while searching for reference made in 18-whatever, Bertie can't keep a straight face.

Crazy? Yes, Father is probably right on that account.

But pointless...? The hopeless mangle of papers and diagrams drawn out after a day's commitment to research says otherwise.


	3. robertson

**robertson**  
 **(Day 42)**

There are two instances in which Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr. will suffer a workplace injury. The first in 1899, the other, a year and a bit later.

But this is still 1899, well into winter, and cold. Cold enough that Bertie, who doesn't do very well in below average temperature let alone in the standard New York freeze, has to screw his hands up into his pockets and push them as far down as they'll go, even with gloves. Everett, meanwhile, seems fine — fine enough to stand around smoking for a good ten to fifteen minutes, but then, he's also told Bertie that he likes to go sailing during even the coldest of months in the North Atlantic, and can do so in nothing but a thin jacket. The chill doesn't bother him, much.

It bothers Bertie.

So when Everett offers him a cigarette that morning before they head inside, Bertie is at odds. He knows better than to turn down a cigarette, but it's freezing out, and Everett smokes some kind of Duke brand that he doesn't like. It could be easy for him to say that. Just decline and go inside.

But, well, Bertie is, at his core, a man who inspires to please, so rather than moving off into the far warmer interior of the Knick, he stands there with Everett and smokes — His own, not Everett's. Heck, he has to draw the line somewhere — as fast as he can without hyperventilating. It's only when Bertie is two-thirds of his way finished when he realizes that Everett is really pushing it, time wise. He sits on the bench and drags slowly, looking off vaguely at the building, while Bertie is left standing.

It's nearly five to when Bertie finally crushes his out under his foot and shifts his hand back into his pocket before it can freeze solid, but just to make it more obvious — the time or his impatience, Bertie couldn't tell — he takes out his watch and squints at it. "We better get going," he says, neutrally, and Everett snaps his head at him like he's just been insulted in a different language. Bertie puts his watch back. "Six to eight."

"Oh," Everett puts out his own cigarette as he stands. "Sorry, Bertie, I'm just tired." He adds a few seconds later, as if bursting to add context. "Eleanor's been sick."

Bertie doesn't really know what to say to that. Obviously, a _sorry_ or _that's too bad_ would be in order, but for some reason, it just doesn't seem like it'd fit the situation. Everett's body language is all strange. Nothing like his usual grievances, which could range from the bizarrely simple, like discovering that they both had the same diploma, to the more understandable, like a change in technique in the theatre at the drop of the hat because Thack _just wants to try something for a second please_. He reaches a foot out, kicks a stone and settles for making some kind of expression instead.

"I think she's pregnant." Everett says then, bluntly and never before has Bertie been so happy not say _sorry_ or _that's too bad_ in his life.

"Oh," Bertie blinks. "Well, if so, congratulations."

And he means that, he does, it's just that Bertie doesn't really understand. He gets why Everett would be shocked, and happy, and concerned, but at the same time it's just something that doesn't come along too often in his day to day interactions enough for him to be deeply affected. It seems to be the right course of action. Everett does look pleased; pleased that Bertie approves or just pleased in general, he can't tell, but it speaks volumes that Bertie doesn't ask questions afterward and lets Everett do the talking.

Granted, Bertie is a physician — he understands the technicalities, but as a twenty-four-year-old newly minted doctor, he doesn't quite get the unabridged nature of it all. None of his friends — his outside ones — who spend their days fleshing out their newly found careers like him are married. Bertie really only has one intimate experience with a pregnancy and that was when Carla came along when he was seven. When he was old enough — smart enough — and enough of his father's son to understand what that meant, having growing up in a Practice, but not old enough strictly to do anything about it either way. Bertie feels the same way about it now, in regards to Everett.

Good for him.

Now it's time to go inside.

"Richmonds, you smoke Richmonds." Everett glanced along as they go through the front doors and Bertie pulls a face, removing his hat — both of them doing so at the same time — and blinking into the dim room before him.

"I like them," What Bertie really means is he likes the cards that come with them, but that seems like something really embarrassing to have to admit. "And I get them in cartons."

"Economics." Everett rumbles.

"Perhaps there is a career in it after all." Like a lot of people, Bertie had grown up with very narrowed career prospects. He smiles at the absurdity of it, and glances at Everett as they make for the double doors on the left. "But then I guess—"

And then it hits him.

This is not some figure of speech, an archaic cliched line, those ones that Bertie can memorize with the accuracy of a darn elephant — there's another one — but instead something quite genuine. It hits him. Hard. The door, that is.

The first time Bertie sees Cornelia Robertson working at the Knick, she accidently hits him in the face with the edge of the doorframe and borderline on knocks him unconscious. Not quite. But enough for him to also drop right backwards onto the floor and phase out for a moment or two, like his brain had just switched off and on again to the point of it not really _feeling_ like he'd blacked out, but obviously had, because the last thing he remembers before was him standing upright, something moving across his peripheral vision, and feeling a sharp sudden pain. Now at least there was more pain, though this was continuous and dull, and he was on the floor. Not for long, really. Everett was on him close to immediately.

"Oh dear," It sounded ordinary and acceptable. Like something he'd hear at home. Oh dear. My God. Oh no. Uh oh. Good gracious. "You okay there? Here, come on. Get up." Everett pulls him up and hands him something that feels light and smooth, and Bertie knows instinctively what to do even though he doesn't carry handkerchiefs himself — there's no surer way to make Father cringe — and can't seem to think. He holds it to his face, pressing his nose between his thumb and index finger. That hurts.

Nothing crunches or cracks — no crepitation, thank God, so he's sure that it isn't broken, but understanding this subconsciously is different to actively thinking about it. Bertie _isn't_ thinking about it. He's so surprised and shocked he just... stands there, not quite understanding what is happening but at the same time seemingly managing to run through all the same checks he does on patients who are suffering a similar dilemma without direction. Lean forward and breathe through the mouth — drain blood down the nose instead of down the back of the throat. Stay upright. Lying down causes blood pressure of the nose. You need to discourage further bleeding, Chickering. There we go. Good man.

It's better than "Oh dear" at any rate. Bertie gasps through his mouth as someone sets a hand on his forearm. It's not a good idea, really. His hands are bloody.

On instinct, he brings his free hand up to chest-height like he does in the theatre and blinks again.

Bertie knows Cornelia indirectly. As in, Father's oldest brother's wife — the aunt Bertie has seen perhaps three or four times his whole life — is sister to Cornelia's mother's youngest sister's husband's _brother_ — whoever he is, and it's _that_ kind of indirectly. They don't know each other, not really. They're familiar in the sense that they've seen each other, once, in certain circles. Circles that Bertie only walks when he's tagging along with his parents because he's part of a different generation. Those kind of circles. The kind that Thackery detests and Father avoids like the plague.

Hey look, there's another one.

"Oh it's okay," Bertie says to her unheard question, or remark, and he can feel his mouth getting full. He could do with spitting that out — swallowing blood is bad — but he's not about to do that in front of her of all people. "It's okay. No harm done."

"Well I'm not to sure about that," Cornelia says gently, apologises again, and Bertie finds himself trapped in a furious non-debate of apologies and reassurances.

"You couldn't have known—

"—I know but I—"

"— _Really_ it's okay—"

"—I should have checked before—"

"I think we need to get you looked at," Everett cuts in curtly a few more seconds afterwards and looks at Cornelia, all smiles. "He'll be fine. Bertie's a tough customer."

 _I wouldn't say that_. Bertie thinks, but by this point, opening his mouth would probably be a mistake. He _really_ wouldn't say that. Cornelia looks at him more strongly when Everett says so, like she's finally managed to put a name to a face. Bertie at least doesn't have that problem. Never has. He smiles and looks around for that hat he dropped — Everett has it, but doesn't hand it over. It's probably for the best.

"Well I better let you do that," she sighs, pats him on the forearm again, and looks at Everett. "I'll see you two around, and I'm sorry, Bertie. Really."

Bertie makes some semblance of a noise.

"Of course," Everett is still smiling, like this has happened before or something. He's not phased in the slightest. He tells Bertie, when they're on their way again, that it's hardly the most obscure thing to ever happen. He'll get used to it.

"The nosebleeds?"

"Oh God no, Chickering; the inelegance. Welcome to the Circus."

And suffice to say, when Thackery sees the damage, it's pretty much what Bertie expected in the first place.

"Uh oh," he smiles and Bertie is starting to understand why it's just another Tuesday at the Knick.


End file.
